Her Favourite Songs
by Microfatcat
Summary: A short oneshot about Blaise Zabini's mother  the supermodel Sophìa. Did she really love all seven of her deceased husbands? Warning: mention of rape.


Disclaimer: The only thing I've done is named a character and given her a story that had warranted just one line in HBP. The rest belongs to JKR! Her husbands' names belong to me - that's all.

A/N: I found Sophìa fascinating, so I wrote about her. The inspiration came whilst writing another oneshot - Fleur/Bill - which will probably be up here soon.

Canon states, if you'd forgotten:

_'Zabini had a famously beautiful witch for a mother (from what Harry could make out, she had been married seven times, each of her husbands dying mysteriously and leaving her mounds of gold)'_

On with the story! Please review - it means a lot to me.

**Her Favourite Songs**

Contrary to popular belief, she was not a common slut and she didn't only like men for their healthy bank accounts.

Sophìa was a supermodel. Shouldn't she deserve the best? Why were people so quick to link her choice of husbands with their pile of gold?

Yes, she had killed them. But if she hadn't, she could only be adored from afar and would live a life being wed to boring, dull, ugly old rich men. Didn't she deserve a life of happiness?

Of course she was once besotted, enthralled and entranced by the string of men she had tied the knot with. If she had known what true, requited love was, would she have recognised that she had not been in love with even half of her beaus? Probably.

She had been infatuated with those particular men like anybody loved their favourite song. They couldn't get enough of that song, and had desired to hear it until the apocalypse. Sophìa had picked and chosen her husbands not just because she could, but because they offered her something that she hadn't had much as a girl; safety.

Sophìa had always been a stunning girl that had left even some women speechless. Her uncle, Leonardo, was inclined to agree. Consequently, she had been raped by him. It had been in the apparent safety of her own home, where he had lived with her and his wife, Giulia.

As she was lying in the spare room, tied up and gagged, she vowed that she would find safety. She would move far, far, away from anything that terrified her and would marry a kind, loving man that would never dream of mistreating her. Sophìa loved to be worshipped and admired, but only from afar, and only by people that she didn't trust. Lust was a dangerous thing, and she would not fall into that perilous trap.

She had only truly been in love once. Her first husband, Giorgio Mendez, had been a sculptor. He had lived and worked locally and had understood her. With him she had felt safe. He had had dark, curly hair and the smile of an angel.

The one man she had thought would never let her come to any harm had broken her heart. She had caught him in bed with another man. Sophìa was distraught, and had told him he was disgusting and belonged where he was going, straight to hell. In fury, she had thrown her rare yellow diamond wedding ring in his stunned face.

She had been waiting for hours for him to come back to the home they shared that night. She had well-rehearsed a speech to overlook that fateful incident and to forgive him, apologising profusely for her terrible, inexcusable behaviour and begging to be taken back into his warm, comforting arms.

He never returned. She awoke the next morning after sobbing herself quietly to sleep to a cold, empty bed.

So she had made her way over to the barn, her perfect Giorgio had converted into a workshop some two miles away, to beg for his forgiveness.

Her heart had resounded in her mouth as she heaved open the huge door as she had done every lunchtime before, his lunch in hand, ready to admire what beautiful iconic work he had created that morning.

However, it was different this time. All was too quiet in the workshop, it wasn't lunchtime and Sophìa certainly didn't have any lunch for him.

Sophìa had emitted an ear-splitting shriek at the sight of her once-husband swinging from the rafters. His tanned skin on his serene face had been reduced to porcelain, blending in like a cherub, surrounded by his calm, clay renaissance-style works of art.

Her beating heart too was swaying back and forth on that rope, and there it had stayed for the rest of her life.

Soon after, her talent as a clothes horse had been unveiled as she sat in the audience of a catwalk show, during the wizarding fashion show in the heart of Milan.

A well-dressed man had spotted her and given her his business card and soon after they had got talking. A few months after that, they married. She was 20. He gave her a job and with that, income security. Not long after, she had overplayed his song too often and she couldn't _bear_ the sight of him. The song had to stop playing. It had been in the number one spot for far too long, and had to come down.

Her fifth marriage was an unusual one. In many respects it was the same; he wasn't exactly a supermodel himself and he was stinking rich but in this marriage she bore him a child.

She had never felt so awful the day it was born, and had never felt a desire for change so strong, that had never spurred her on _so_ much, that she felt compelled to change her lifestyle.

Yes, this baby that looked like a plucked chicken had changed her rock 'n' roll lifestyle. Not only in a good way; she was a little fatter, got far less work and had never got much of her well-deserved beauty sleep, but she now knew that she not only had to be safe, but her little bouncing baby boy Blaise needed to be safe too.

So she had poisoned his no-good father. It wasn't as if Blaise could _ever_ look up to him. He didn't even look like him!

Surprisingly, she had slowed herself down and improved greatly. Instead of moving in straight away with the next husband, she had bought herself a normal, cramped, four-bedroomed penthouse flat in rainy England. She rarely worked, but was thankfully still recognised on the streets, so she could live with that.

She planned on sending Blaise to the infamous Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry in Scotland. It was good for him to be close to home, so he could write to his old maid of a mother and bring home girlfriends in the school holidays.

One of her previous husbands, Steven Hunter, had taught at that school, and it sounded quite reputable. Having no true friends to enquire to, and only her precious boy to dote on, she had nobody to ask.

Sophìa wasn't at all alone. She had her beautiful, handsome boy and a lovely, _secure_ home in London. And she was currently engaged to Alimert Rano, an oil sheikh from Turkey. Not that she was rushing into it, or anything. She'd leave it a couple of months.

The amount of her admirers had lessened considerably since she fell pregnant, but she loved her baggage dearly. More than she loved her bone structure!

A/N: There. Hope you liked it! Don't forget to check out my other stories and review. Thank you for reading :)


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